


Talking, All We Ever Do

by screamlet



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Literary RPF
Genre: Canonical Character Death, FIGHTING IN A GRAVEYARD, GAYS PAYING TRIBUTE AT OSCAR WILDE'S GRAVE, HISTORICAL GRAVEYARD ARGUMENTS BETWEEN OSCAR WILDE'S LOVERS, M/M, THEY PUT THE FUN IN FUNERAL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-19
Updated: 2007-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 04:39:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1632044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamlet/pseuds/screamlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robbie Ross is dying with only a nubile young man and memories to keep him company.</p><p>Mostly the young man, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talking, All We Ever Do

**Author's Note:**

> Switches between various moments -- the earliest being Oscar and Robbie's first meeting in 1885, and the latest October 1918, with several points in between.
> 
> Written for Culumacilinte

 

 

Robbie woke facing the wall. Light streamed in and illuminated the wallpaper in all its ghastly gold and puce glory. Oscar. He tentatively stretched out a foot and recoiled at the touch of cold skin. Slowly he turned over, coming to settle on his stomach. Yes, Oscar was there, lying on his back and looking out the window across the room.

"I applaud your choice of room -- sunrise over the Seine, it's exquisite -- but is there really nothing to be done about the decorating scheme?"

"Well, we can move," he replied, "But you'll find this is the fairest price for a room in all of Paris. The manager's quite a fan, and thinks his daughter would be a wonderful Salomé."

"Goodness, a father casting his daughter as Salomé? The French never cease to amaze."

"How did you sleep?"

"Not at all. Do you still enjoy sleep? I find as I age that I enjoy it less. I dreaded waking, even before Reading."

Robbie yawned again and mumbled, "Yes." He folded his arms and rested his head on them, slowly gathering his thoughts and all that had to be done today and in the next several days and weeks. Nothing came to mind, though. Or rather, everything came to mind, but nothing stood out as being especially urgent.

"Is it very vulgar to talk business in bed, or shall it wait for the post-breakfast stroll?"

"Bed is about the only time I will stomach business," Oscar replied. "Imagine: that I should be so fortunate to hear about my thoroughly decimated finances from a seraph like yourself. In fact, I won't tolerate it out of bed."

"You don't know how dull it's been," Robbie laughed, "Two years of dinner parties with people who say what they mean in the least roundabout way possible."

"Imagine not saying anything at all."

"Touché."

Robbie went into a detailed account of what he was sure Oscar already knew -- all copyrights lost, the children and Constance living in Italy with an adequate allowance from Constance's family, Robbie having the finances to support them both until...

* * *

  
A cough ripped through Robbie's upper body, surging up through his chest as he inhaled large gulps of air. David hurried to rub his back, unsure if it could actually help Robbie's cough, but very sure that he often felt better when he had it done to him.

"Really, I think it would be better if you were on your back," he said quietly.

"No, no," Robbie replied, "Lying on my back, prone for the reaping, I refuse."

"But I don't think it's helping."

He laughed and coughed some more. "Dearheart, I'm sure nothing is helping, nothing I've done _has_ helped, and nothing will _ever_ help." More coughing and a gasp: "Don't let me talk."

"Would you like me to read to you?" David's own hands were growing cold from sheer nervousness. "I'm not very good at entertaining anyone, least of all you, least _least_ of all when you're so sick."

"Do you know," Robbie wheezed, "What I did for entertainment when I was your age?"

"You said not to let you talk."

"There's little else to do now, isn't there?"

"Tell me, then."

"Bosie -- do you know Bosie? You have to know _of_ Bosie, at least."

"A little."

"Well, he was my first houseguest. My parents, as the obscenely rich are wont to do, bought me a house in London after I had published my first... story or essay or what have you. Near many of my friends, near Oscar of course, but Oscar had taken his family into the country the weekend I was finally settled in, and Bosie and I came to some... understanding. 'We are the only two of our kind, those who truly _know_ Oscar. We must be friends.'" Robbie laughed again, and his coughing seemed to have subsided. "And what does that arsehole _do_? He shows up on my doorstep with two boys, tells me that they're undergraduates at his college, and -- my dear David, you simply haven't _lived_ until you've spent a month's allowance paying off furious parents for buggering their children. Their _children_."

"I'm sorry," David replied.

"Dear, really, you must laugh at it. It's taken me twenty years, and you weren't even _there_."

"I don't see what's so funny. It's a horrid thing to do. I'm sorry you were tricked into it."

"We do wretched things when we're young. Look at you, tending to a middle-aged man in his sickbed when you could be in Nice or Genoa with boys your age."

"It would be wretched not to be here, knowing you're here."

Robbie smiled, looking at the window ahead of him. "You're a kind boy. I give you full permission to rifle through my wallet when I've died."

David let out a choked gasp that dissolved into a laugh. "You're terrible," he said.

"Yes, I know."

* * *

  
"What's so funny?" Robbie asked, a forkful of rice hovering near his mouth.

"You've grown up so beautifully."

"I'm almost thirty, you know. Did you know that?"

"You certainly are _not_. You'll be twenty-eight tomorrow, and there is an eternity between twenty-eight and thirty. But I must tell you -- " There was a pause as a waiter came, filled their glasses with wine again, then left. "You..."

"I..."

"I don't know," Oscar said, possibly _sheepish_ for the first time in his life. Robbie knew it had to be a first, as he never let that confidence waver, never. "You're quite different than you once were. How lucky that you should be blessed with adulthood while everyone else merely suffers through it."

* * *

  
"David," Robbie whispered, laughing slightly, "Have you ever had food turn to nothing in your mouth? Do you know what I mean? When you're positively ecstatic and nothing can make a dent? Not ashes, no, but... as if you hadn't bothered to eat at all."

"Are you hungry?"

"What? No, dear, no, but thank you." He groaned and said, "You must contact my family, I'm afraid. Call yourself what you like, they don't mind much anymore. Just... let them know I was all right."

"Now?"

He hesitated and replied, "No, dear, whenever you like."

"Would you like some water?"

"Water. Of course, yes, please. Thank you for thinking of that."

David leaned over to the night table where a pitcher and two glasses were. Having poured a glass, he helped Robbie sit up and drink slowly.

"Do you know, I hope the water here is safe," Robbie said after a few sips.

"Oh no! How could I -- "

"Didn't I say something before? About not fretting?"

"Probably, but I won't listen. You can't stop me from worrying about you. Now drink and hope that this water isn't rife with more disease."

Robbie finished the glass and smiled at David. "Finally, a joke. You must keep me in good spirits if you won't tell me stories."

David put the glass aside and reflected Robbie's smile at him. "What would you like me to tell you? I've not done a tenth of what you've done, and I'm already half your age."

"Well, what _have_ you done, then?"

"Avoided the war."

"That is something. Congratulations, dearest. You may be the only sensible man in Europe."

"I am," David said. "You know I read history at Cambridge. It seems that our education in this country -- well, you know, in England, in _our_ country -- is rooted in war. You would think having memorized most of the _Iliad_ would remind some people that glorious Achilles still died alone, and far from home."

"Little details like those are so easily forgotten when they matter most," Robbie said. David looked and thought he saw genuine interest. He continued.

"I left a letter on the dining room table at my home, and I had raided every book I owned for weeks, listing every war I could find and its cause. Pages and pages, Robbie, it was monstrous and proved at every step of the way: _no, this is not worth my life_. Then I came to Paris and met you." Robbie felt David's hand clutching his and pressed it between his own.

"Dear, it can't possibly end there, or I've done nothing but cause your spiritual stagnation."

"You haven't! How could you even think that? Just because I've not done much... that doesn't mean anything. What does _doing_ anything matter? And don't you dare make that filthy, sir, I'm quite serious..."

* * *

  
Robbie sat on the edge of the bed, huddled over, ready to tear out chunks of his hair. "Oscar," he began, not daring to look. "You know I respect you, I admire you, and I love you more than anyone else I have ever known -- probably will ever know."

"If that's true, then you must let me be as foolish as I wish."

The frustration nearly choked him.

"You don't realize..." Robbie stuttered, "You simply don't know how much..."

"Dearest," Oscar replied, "Look at it this way. Can it possibly be any worse than it was?"

"It can be a hell of a lot better!" he shouted, still refusing to raise his eyes.

It was quiet for a few moments, and Robbie finally stood up, walking over to the writing desk and clutching some loose pages. "This! This wonderful poem! You write this and it's so, so beautiful. There's still so much in you that will go to _waste_ on Bosie. It's 1895 again, but in a different venue."

"You don't know how it warms my heart, dear Robbie, that you think there's more like that poem in me." He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "However, I must tell you that I have said everything I need to say."

"How can you simply give up on yourself? No one else has! I certainly haven't."

Oscar pursed his lips, and dug in his pockets for a cigarette. "I wish I could explain, but that's the problem. Two years of not speaking, two _years_ of brilliant ideas, sparkling thoughts, dazzling concepts -- and no one to listen. No paper to receive them. I swallowed them all, and eventually they left me, though I took whatever nourishment they had to offer me."

"Only you, Oscar. I've never heard a shit sound so appealing."

"Exactly. And I don't have the strength, or the impetus, to learn and vomit glory onto a page again. Bosie was always horribly jealous of everything I did; perhaps once he sees that I can't do it anymore, he'll be sated and we'll be all right."

"You can't _really_ believe that," Robbie said, and he felt a sneer on his face. "You may not be an artist anymore, but you aren't _deranged_. Bosie is a stain upon humanity. If he had been an officer, he would have been murdered by his own troops."

"Yes, he would have," Oscar agreed. "But as it is, he is only a spoiled child who never grew up, and he only injured me."

" _And_ everyone you've ever known." Robbie triumphed in his deliciously mean and shallow victory.

"Leave then," Robbie added, more to himself than to Oscar, "Go back to him. But I won't stop. You've committed a base crime against yourself, and I will be your personal Fury until you've come to your senses and washed yourself clean of him."

"I have no doubt about it. You look so fearsome in this light," he said though, of course, Robbie only felt condescension. "You will look so darling with flowers in your hair, dancing through Athens, my kindly one." He put the cigarette in the ashtray and approached him -- just in case, Robbie watched every detail, committing them to memory in case it was the last time he ever saw Oscar again. It was a strange feeling, and it would probably come to nothing, but he drank in his long strides and the smile on his lean face.

"Allow an old man to be stupid; it's one of the few pleasures I have left."

As he spoke, he ran his fingers down the side of Robbie's face, from the top of his hair, down his sideburns, down to his neck and collarbone, trying to break the anger that had made Robbie rigid and tense. Oscar embraced him and, after an excruciatingly long moment, Robbie returned the embrace, digging his fingers into the suit's material.

"You're always welcome," Robbie finally said.

* * *

  
Robbie laughed suddenly. "Do you know, I think I've finally lost my mind."

"What?"

"You've been talking this entire time and I haven't been listening!"

"Oh. Well. That's all right. You're ill. I'll tell you later."

"Of course. Are you comfortable?"

"Robbie, really, you're asking me?"

"Yes. Come lie here for a moment or several. I won't cough on you. I'll try not to, anyway. Shove my face away if I attempt it. And don't kiss me."

"Robbie -- "

"Stop it, I'm ancient, don't."

The conditions laid on the moment, David reclined next to Robbie and let an arm slither under his shoulders. Robbie fell asleep quickly.

* * *

  
" _Who's that?_ " Matthias asked in Greek.

"He's an awful man who shouldn't be allowed in cemeteries to disturb the sleep of good, decent souls," Reggie answered.

"Do shut _up_ , Reggie," Bosie snapped. "I didn't think Robbie would bring his harem to his grave."

" _Harem_ \--" Reggie began before regaining control of himself.

"Bosie, what are you doing here?" Robbie asked flatly. "Who told you about the service?"

"Father Charles is a friend of mine. _He_ was a friend of mine."

"I've never been very _good_ with religion, or God, but let me just say -- may God and all his saints and angels save me from a friend like you. Though I suppose it's a bit too late for that." Robbie added to Matthias, "Don't look directly into his eyes. Go get the priest."

"Really, Robbie," Bosie said, "As if I were Satan himself!"

"He's young and impressionable, and I won't let him imagine, not even for a moment, that there could ever be anything even resembling human decency in you. Even this... kneeling by an open grave is more _Punch and Judy_ grotesque than anything like grief."

Robbie could hear Bosie breathing sharply through his nose, looking down at the dirt and refusing to meet anyone's eyes.

"I need this," Bosie replied. "You may laugh, scoff, or call the police to take me away..."

"Hm, sounds familiar," Robbie interjected.

"...but I need this, or I'll never have my own life. You can play the widow, publish every scrap of paper he ever breathed on, maybe even a few of your own if you were smart, but I can't, now can I? Nor would I want it."

"Bosie Douglas and the cry for individuality? Independence? I can hardly believe my ears. In fact, I don't. I must be catching some kind of infection," Robbie said.

"How could you!" Bosie cried. Robbie raised his eyebrows, keeping a calm and placid expression on his face while Bosie pressed a hand fervently to his heart. "That's all I've ever wanted! Freedom from my mother, my father, my brothers, and there was Oscar! Giving me everything I ever needed or wanted! All he wanted from me was _everything_."

"Goodness, I do hope that priest Matthias went to _Rome_ for has some holy water. I've never actually seen what holy water does to something unclean."

"Robbie!" Bosie pleaded. "How could you think I'm lying now, at a time like this, when I have nothing left to lose? Nothing to gain from being here? All I want is to put those terrible years behind me, once and for all."

"Oh no," Robbie said quickly, lowering himself to one knee and letting the hand that wasn't clutching a walking stick grab Bosie's shoulder firmly and relentlessly. "I refuse. You absolutely won't forget 'those terrible years', as you call them, not when the greatest works of our time might be lost forever in infamy and scandal, all brought about by you."

"Robbie," Bosie began, his eyes becoming less helpless and more enticing, "I know you want that, too. You want a life of your own. No man can live in this world and say he _doesn't_."

"Have you been reading Milton?" Reggie asked over Robbie's shoulder, but the question was forgotten.

"My life _is_ my own," Robbie added. "I know it's impossible to imagine, but I _can_ wake up every morning, glad that I've been a good person rather than a well-known one."

* * *

  
"Did I ever tell you that after my best friend's funeral, I went for a drink with the man who imprisoned him and ruined his life?"

"Why?"

"You tell me. It's been eighteen years and I still don't know."

"I... wouldn't know where to begin."

"Oh, no one ever does." Robbie closed his eyes and smiled. "Your hands are freezing. An utter delight."

"Sounds like a review for a play."

"I'm sure it is, somewhere." The hacking cough had returned and Robbie turned away from David, who rubbed his back again. "It's always like this, isn't it. Or maybe it was just me."

"What?"

"I can't even have my own death, really. Have to die in the same hotel as Oscar, not in the same room, thankfully, but in the same way. In a hideous room with a close friend and not much else."

"Stop being morbid, please."

"It can't be helped if the facts happen to be morbid."

"Be quiet. You're incorrigible."

Robbie coughed for a long stretch, then fell asleep.

* * *

  
"I wonder how Christ stood _twelve_ disciples and I have far too much trouble with you, just the one."

"You should eavesdrop on women when they're having their coffee after dinner parties. You're all they talk about, and whether you'll leave your wife for 'a reader'."

"Are they really that cruel to my poor Constance?"

"Cruel, well. To put it mildly."

"You know I love dramatics and flamboyance, but I would never leave my dear Constance. Look at how we perfectly complement each other. Her very name and nature, linked together, inspire me to heights of fidelity I never knew possible."

"Yes, but this fidelity that involves buggering me rather than working on your dialogue does rather press the traditional definition of the word."

"Enough of your cheek, please, and kiss me so I may get back to work. No will to live or work, you see, without it."

* * *

  
Two days later, Alfred Douglas noticed an obituary for R. Ross in his usual newspaper. He read it through several times, committing every word to memory. As he read the rest of the newspaper, he found it increasingly difficult to suppress his glee, and allowed his foot to tap a medley he had heard in a dance hall the other night.

 


End file.
